


An Unseen

by ticketybye



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (but nothing graphic), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Invisibility, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Protective Crowley, mentions of war and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 06:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticketybye/pseuds/ticketybye
Summary: Crowley turns invisible.Or: if you thought he'd just sleep for a century, think again.





	An Unseen

_I watched love leave, turn, wave, want not to go,_  
_depart, return;_  
_late spring, a warm slow blue of air, old-new._  
_Love was here; not; missing, love was there;_  
_each look, first, last._

\- Carol Ann Duffy, "An Unseen"

It starts in 1862. Rotten year.

Aziraphale makes it very clear he wants nothing to do with Crowley. He refuses to respond to, or even acknowledge, Crowley’s attempts to communicate: Crowley sends letters, tries the telegraph, miracles an announcement in a newspaper. The tone of his messages varies according to his current mood. One day, it’s _Aziraphale, please talk to me. I am sorry. I should never have asked. Allow me to take you to dinner to make amends_. Another, it’s a more dispirited _Angel, you were always stubborn, but never cruel. How can you leave me like this? Give me the chance to apologize_. Another, he loses his patience: _Very well then. You have proven your point. You will not hear from me again._

Nothing. All for nothing. Not a word from him in six months now. A prisoner thought starts to rattle its chains in Crowley’s mind. Aziraphale _could_ be in danger. Perhaps Heaven has found out about their arrangement. Perhaps Aziraphale has returned Above and been forbidden from ever contacting Crowley again. And if that’s the case, his messages might have made matters worse. Crowley scowls as he watches the bread hit the water with a faint plop, the ducks fighting to get the biggest piece. This isn’t the same without Aziraphale. Killing a couple of these stupid animals would make him feel better – if only he didn’t hear the angel’s voice in the back of his head, _my dear, there’s no need_. Aziraphale likes ducks. He likes all animals. All creatures, really. Apart from him? Crowley throws another piece angrily, gritting his teeth.

What to do? He can’t just knock on his door. He’s still got some dignity, and besides, if the worst case scenario is true and Heaven is involved, he will just draw unwanted attention. No, he needs to be _clever_. Then, the solution dawns on him, and how could he be so stupid not to figure this out sooner? A particularly brave duck has come closer, and is staring intently at his hand caught mid-throw. “Ha! He can’t turn me away if he can’t see me!” Crowley shouts, and the duck startles and flies away. Passersby stare with a mix of fear and pity.

Demons can turn invisible. It’s not something that Crowley has done frequently over the years, because it’s not exactly _pleasant_. A sudden change in the nature of one’s corporation is bound to be uncomfortable, so he only does it when it’s strictly necessary, or when he is dying for a bit of a change. It does make mischief a lot easier, though. You can ruin someone’s day without so much as interacting with them. Think about it: it’s just one of _those_ mornings, things keep falling off your hands, you trip into the shower – who put the soap bar there? – and your phone is mysteriously dead, though you’re _sure_ you put it to charge the night before. A series of mild annoyances is guaranteed to ruin your day and, by extension, that of everyone around you. Crowley never gets commendations in these cases, but success isn’t everything in life, and sometimes demons just want to have fun.

He doesn’t see why it shouldn’t work now. Back in the privacy of his bedroom, Crowley scrunches up his face in concentration, feels all air leave his lungs and his limbs tingle furiously, and for a few seconds everything goes black. When he comes back to his senses, he turns to look in the full-length mirror and realizes that he’s done it. He’s disappeared.

Easy-peasy now – he waits outside the bookshop’s door until he can follow an oblivious client. Aziraphale is reading behind the cash drawer, barely looks up to wish the client a distracted “good day.” Crowley gets closer, checks Aziraphale’s body and face for signs of something _off_ – he doesn’t know what he’s hoping to find, or not to find – but the angel is his usual, angelic self. They both need to rethink the length of their sideburns, Crowley considers, mentally damning the current fashion. Well. Nothing to see, then.

Then he sees _them_. They’re unequivocally his messages – all piled up on the table next to Aziraphale, tied together with a pale blue thread and a lavender twig. Crowley swallows. Aziraphale seems to sense something for a second, turning to look in his general direction. Then his eyes turn to the pile of papers, which he strokes delicately, and he sighs deeply, sadly.

Crowley is shattered. He evaluates the possibility of manifesting here fully, apologizing, tearing the letters – especially the angrier ones – in shreds. But, no – sad as he might seem, Aziraphale doesn’t want to talk to him. Crowley thinks of their last exchange with a shudder. _How could you say that? How could you say you don’t need him? Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He resolves not to do anything. This will have to do. At least, he’ll be able to keep an eye on him.

Soon enough, he finds that he spends more time following Aziraphale around than doing anything else. He tempts and he wiles and he makes life in London a little bit more miserable than normal, but every day, once he’s covered the basics, he finds his ghostly form moving of its own volition toward the bookshop. He barely even uses his corporeal form these days, except when he has to report to head office. The boss doesn’t seem to mind.

So he hangs around in Aziraphale’s bookshop, just quietly looking at the angel going about his day, unaware of his presence. He convinces himself that this observation is nothing but a necessary annoyance, at first – Someone knows what trouble the angel is capable of getting himself into without him – but it comes as a surprise how much he doesn’t, in fact, mind. Aziraphale has always made him feel at peace, _at home_ , but everything’s become much clearer now. It’s a series of small epiphanies: his relief when he sees Aziraphale at the end of a tiring day; the pleasant twist in his chest when he sees Aziraphale first thing in the morning, fresh out of bed after a night of sleep or, more often, reading; in the warmth that Aziraphale radiates when Crowley allows himself to float closer to him. _Tenderness_ is a detestable beast he’s tried all his life to steer clear of. But it’s got him now; he feels it gnaw ferociously at his breast bone.

The years go by, and as much as Crowley misses talking to Aziraphale – he misses everything: their dinners, their drinking, their little philosophical debates, casually brushing Aziraphale’s fingers with his own as they walk – he’s content just being in his presence. It’s much better than nothing. It’s not easy, though. It’s especially not easy when the angel has what Crowley calls his moments of weakness. It will usually be late at night. Crowley will be floating above the chair he used to occupy, and Aziraphale will sit gloomily in his, a hot chocolate on the coffee table, holding Crowley’s letters in trembling hands. He will carefully undo the knot, put aside the dried lavender, and go through the messages, one by one. He doesn’t cry. Well – barely cries, and only when he can’t avoid it. He just lets out some frustrated sighs, traces Crowley’s spiky handwriting with his fingertips. One memorable time – Crowley would gladly discorporate, if only he were embodied – the angel brings one letter to his lips, planting a soft kiss on the word “Angel”. Then he puts the letters back in their drawer, and that’s usually it for another week at least.

Crowley comes to know many small things about Aziraphale. He finds he likes to look at his hands up close. Sometimes, he will just lay his incorporeal head on Aziraphale’s counter and stare at the little dimples on his hands; at the way he turns the pages of his books, holding their corners between thumb and index and then smoothing them down like the top of a lover’s head. Crowley is nowhere near ready to admit this to himself, but what he wouldn’t give to be handled by Aziraphale like a book. He would let him – words are hard, escape him when they’ve barely even taken shape inside his head; he would let him do _anything_ , even dog-ear his pages (which he knows Aziraphale hates, but still). Crowley would be happy to rest on a shelf for the rest of his life, if it meant Aziraphale would touch him like that, every once in a while.

Then there are the lines on Aziraphale’s face. They absolutely fascinate Crowley. That Aziraphale would choose to keep them, even though they make him so open, so marvelously vulnerable. Aziraphale’s crow’s feet, which deepen with every genuine smile – he doesn’t smile as much as he should, Crowley wants to see him smile more, always – he wants to kiss. The little frown lines, permanent evidence of Aziraphale’s righteous doubt, he wants to smooth down with his fingers. He could bite – tenderly, never hurting – into the dimples on Aziraphale’s cheeks.

More than anything, he likes the gentle curves of Aziraphale’s body – the way his sturdy neck blends into his plump shoulders; his arms, built for holding and keeping and staying; the generous expanse of his chest and belly, Crowley’s idea of a perfect pillow; his thighs, always stretching the fabric of his trousers a little bit, no matter how snug the pair. Crowley tries not to think about Aziraphale’s thighs, as an act of self-preservation. He absent-mindedly recognizes one of his feelings as lust, but that’s fine, really. Demons are notoriously lustful creatures. It’s the _veneration_ that worries him: the way he sees Aziraphale’s body as his personal temple, the angel’s heart – which you could argue is not visible, but which Crowley sees, instead, clear as day, pumping love into everything the angel touches – his personal god. He wants… he couldn’t say. He wants to kneel, and beg for mercy, and put centuries of weariness into his god’s trustworthy hands.

A more immediate, practical desire he has is for Aziraphale to see him again, to stand before the angel in the flesh. He _could_ keep doing this, if he had no alternative, but he just misses Aziraphale, in quite a mundane, human way. And it’s so hard not to reach out a hand and just – Crowley’s invisible, but he _could_ touch.

Sometimes he forgets that he’s even invisible. Sometimes the angel _looks up_ , straight at and through him, and smiles his saddest smile, and mouths something Crowley doesn’t get. _I am here_ , Crowley wants to say, _I am here forever_ , but doesn’t. Aziraphale looks away, and Crowley retreats to a corner of the room, telling himself the time will come, and when it does, he’ll know.

It doesn’t come for a while. The first war is iron and dust and blood, and Aziraphale does what he’s been created for doing. He protects, when he can, and walks among the injured lending his healing hands when he can’t. He can’t save everyone – boss’s orders – and Crowley sees the awareness of that terrible fact written all over Aziraphale’s excruciated face. He sees the angel cry, golden tears falling in vain over lifeless bodies, and wants nothing more than to drag Aziraphale away, to a far, far away land where war is but a distant cry. As for him, he doesn’t have much to do – he’s been warmly congratulated for his work and left mostly in peace. He’s grateful and horrified at once. Grateful because he gets to do nothing but watch over Aziraphale, which has proved quite a challenge, seeing the angel’s tendency to storm battlefields. Crowley manages to keep him from discorporating two or three times, smiting here and there. Horrified because he can’t believe how well humans are doing what’s supposed to be his job. It’s not like war, itself, is anything new, but the _extent_ of this war… even when he closes his eyes he can see a million silhouettes dropping like flies, hear the wails of newly childless mothers, see the disfigured child that… but Crowley won’t dwell on that. He should relish in the suffering of the mortals. Maybe he’s just getting old.

One time, a young man dies in Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley watches it happen from afar. It’s not sudden, and it’s not painless, and the soldier manages to have a whole conversation with the angel while the light leaves his eyes. Something about an expecting spouse. Crowley sees Aziraphale struggle to get his healing power out, to no avail. Turns out the great plan won’t let this one stay alive. When all’s said and done, the angel lets out an inhuman howl, looks up and yells to the unlistening night sky, “why? Why? Why?” The word is drawled over and over again, until his screams turn into quiet wails and die out.

Aziraphale returns home on unsteady legs, with Crowley a few figurative steps behind him, and as soon as he’s closed the door behind him collapses on his knees, looking exhausted and defeated. His eyes are dry and lifeless as he stares blankly at the wall. He turns off all the lights with a snap of his fingers and just sits there. Oh, bless this. Crowley sits to face him, and carefully places a would-be hand on the angel’s cheek. Aziraphale stirs, lets out a pained, nearly soundless sob. “You’re back,” he whispers. “I’m here,” Crowley whispers back, confident that tomorrow Aziraphale will blame the shock. He holds the quivering angel to his chest until he’s fast asleep, then lays him on the couch and covers him with a blanket. The sight of him so unguarded, gunpowder and rubble all over his clothes and tousled hair, nearly breaks Crowley’s heart.

The next day, Aziraphale shows no sign of remembering.

The second war comes before either of them has had a moment to recover. He knows Aziraphale feels it coming well in advance, and watches him stand at the window for days on end, in horrified anticipation. Above won’t take Aziraphale’s desperate calls, and Below is over the proverbial moon. This time, the angel seems determined to do something more substantial to fight the good fight, and joins a network of English secret agents. Crowley is exasperated. _What_ does the angel think he’s doing? If Aziraphale’s magic skills are any indication of his subtlety, he _will_ get himself discorporated in no time. So he joins the network too, very careful to avoid meeting Aziraphale when he’s in his corporeal form. He works from the inside, making sure Aziraphale’s never assigned important or dangerous tasks. If he weren’t so bloody worried, Crowley would laugh at how easy it is to justify his choices to head office – in the eyes of the bosses, he’s just keeping an adversary away from the natural unfolding of Evil.

Then, one day, the terrifying news – “that dumb bookkeeper,” one of the Americans announces during a meeting, “got played for a sucker.” Crowley’s on his feet before anyone can protest. In fact, he quickly obliterates everyone’s memory of him before he’s even out the door. This is it. This is – provided that he gets Aziraphale out of there in time – his chance. He’s going.

The consecrated ground is scorching his soles as he hops down the aisle, _trust the angel to arrange an arrest in a bloody church_ , but he truly could not care less. The pain is plenty worth the look of sheer joy – masked carefully underneath a worried frown – that Aziraphale gives him as he spots him. Aziraphale is _seeing_ him, for the first time in almost a century, and it’s a glorious thing.

It’s a matter of minutes until the stupid Nazis are where they belong – under rubble – and the two of them are safe, warily eyeing each other while standing on the remains of a place of worship. _The fucking metaphors_ … but Crowley cannot bring himself to joke, can only stare in silence, until the angel finally speaks. “That was very kind of you,” he says, clearly trying his hardest to sound like his usual, holier-than-thou self. Crowley doesn’t buy any of it. “Shut up,” he drawls, doing his best, mostly failing, to hide a smile under his dark glasses. He wants more than anything to run up to Aziraphale and smash every single part of their bodies together, but doesn’t, because that’s not what they do. And before he can think of the next step, Aziraphale is already worrying over his books. “Oh, they’ll be blown to…” he begins, but doesn’t get to finish. Crowley is many things, but he’s not dense, and he _is_ a good planner. He hands Aziraphale his bag of books, unscathed, and their fingers touch for a single, world-shattering second, and Crowley thinks this must be the culmination of the ineffable plan if there’s ever been one. That revolutionary moments such as this one are worth millennia of semi-existence.

The wait’s over. Crowley is visible. Aziraphale is awake. 

**

The Apocalypse almost happens, and then doesn’t. The two of them fool Heaven and Hell, working like cogs of a well-oiled machine. In every practical sense, all is well.

It’s been decades since Crowley has needed to turn invisible again, and even now he doesn’t strictly _need_ to, because Aziraphale is not trying to avoid him. On the contrary – they are spending more and more time together, until they exist in the liminal space between being two and being one. And yet – there are limits. These limits involve nights, when they’re not too drunk to part ways, and some alone time that they devote to their respective interests. This, to Crowley, is simply unacceptable. He recently spent around five hours thinking Aziraphale had left him for good, quite easily the worst five hours of his long existence, and has no intention of leaving his side again. Turned invisible once again, his plants miracled to perennial health, Crowley hangs around the angel as the latter settles back into everyday life, scowling at clients and acquiring books and making hot cocoas. At night, on the rare occasions when Aziraphale dozes off, Crowley watches over him, smiling unabashedly to himself. The relief never really fades away. The rest of their lives stretches in front of Crowley’s very eyes, perfect, an eternity of _them_. The wish for more doesn’t fade away, either. But Crowley’s used to waiting; used to fading into the background in the company of his yearning.

But the time to be seen must come again, and this time it comes on a slow, cold night. Crowley’s watching Aziraphale read an ancient Apocrypha in front of the fireplace, small round glasses on the tip of his nose, a hand absent-mindedly stroking his own chin. The room is warm and tinted orange, and Aziraphale looks lovely in his sleepy contentedness. Crowley just can’t help it – he lets out a small sigh that he hopes will be covered by the crackling of the fire. It isn’t.

“Care to join me?” Aziraphale asks, eyes still on the page, and Crowley freezes in fear. It can’t be…

“I know you’re here, dear,” Aziraphale sighs, and turns to look at him. “Come on, there’s no need for this now.”

Crowley swallows and reappears slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. A few seconds of silence, then, “you knew,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“I’m an angel, dear.” The book now lies, discarded, on the coffee table. “I sense an occult presence when it’s around.”

“So you… all the time… you knew?”

Aziraphale’s gaze is like a cold rain, relentless, washing over all of him. He can’t bear to raise his eyes.

“Come here.”

Crowley obeys, silently, because what else can he do? He perches on the armrest of Aziraphale’s chair and waits for the verdict. Aziraphale takes one of Crowley’s hands in his, brings it to rest on his lap. “Look at me, Crowley.”

Crowley does. The angel’s eyes seem to be bursting with unspoken truths, and it’s all so _sentimental_ it makes Crowley’s skin crawl. He wants, at once, to disappear again and to give in utterly and completely.

“Yes, I knew,” Aziraphale begins, seeming to weigh every word that leaves his mouth. “I figured you didn’t want me to know, or you would have done something. And besides,” he looks down at their joined hands, seems to struggle with a thought for a second, “at least I had you there, in some way or another.”

Crowley swallows, the reality of all the wasted years hitting him straight in the face. He could have… they could have…

“Please don’t blame yourself.” Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hand to his lips, kisses it, delicately. “You’ve done such a beautiful thing. I have loved you, love you, for it.”

Crowley all but moans at that. “Please,” he whispers, not knowing exactly what he’s going to say, “please, can I…?”

“Of course you can.”

He straddles Aziraphale’s lap, lets his forehead rest against the angel’s, and inhales deeply. All this time, all this waiting, and now he doesn’t know… he cups Aziraphale’s face, traces his features with trembling fingers, “is this alright?” He murmurs.

“Yes, always, yes, don’t ask.”

Crowley doesn’t know who initiates the open-mouthed, unfocused kisses that follow, is only aware of his own hands roaming, scratching, grabbing what they can find lest it should be taken away.

“I am here,” he dimly registers Aziraphale’s voice saying, “I’m not going anywhere.” Aziraphale’s steady hands on the small of his back. His mouth on his neck, kissing promises deep into his skin.

“Angel, angel, angel,” he chants, the only prayer he remembers, an invocation to the present body underneath him.

“I am here,” the angel repeats, “I am here. _I see you._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> This just sort of... *gestures vaguely* happened.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] An Unseen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20963072) by [ExMarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExMarks/pseuds/ExMarks)




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